Tomorrow, when the Vulcan god of fire,
Rejects their offerings, she will burn with the rest of the city.
Tomorrow, when the wrath of gods pour into landfills and
The river boils, she will not get far on foot.
Tomorrow,
when the walls are breaking and
the air is sour with naked fear,
she will be one of a thousand deaths, slaughtered
under the mass of ash and pumice.
But today, she is alive and with her mother in the markets,
Clutching a stout baby. The sun is shining and they are shopping for the evening meal.
Pausing at the flower stand between the vendors of fishhooks
And cloth, the flower she lifts to her nose smelled sweeter than usual.
– Sarah Huang…
...continue reading
Jasmine won’t stop speaking in a British accent, the vowels extended and muffled like chewing gum. As we climb around Walmart’s posh blue belly, grabbing at lotion on shelves and running our hands across bedazzled clothing, she stays ahead of me. This is one of her favorite pastimes, Jasmine says. Melting away in supermarkets. It’s like a game, peaking around aisles after midnight, buying for the sake of buying. Especially in the summer, supermarkets have an ethereal way about them. An air conditioned liminal space. A playground for the sleepless. We sit across from each other in an aisle full of toys.
Myself: So, who are you?
Jasmine: (checking her phone) I’m
twenty. I’m from Texas. I’m a nobody poet. I’m a couple of neurons.
Myself: What do you want to
do with your life?…
...continue reading
There are geese in the road
a monogamous pair protecting
five goslings from the onslaught
of morning traffic
like many families
they knit together in times of change
times of great movement
unbearable crisis
here they cross
Silicon Beach tenderly
bookending their nestlings
from the Metro we
know human urgency waits
for no one
least of all these. …
...continue reading
Born to order, off the fossil record, I may
have as many half-life crises as I like. The closing
question hypothetical, I aced my metaphysical
examination. Calibrated down, I’m dead to heaven
yet. While looking over my left shoulder I walk
backwards. I walk where the state of nature was.
While compensating for obliquity I convert every
moon-lit soft spot to a horizontal. To soft spots I
say, Go easy on the realism – realism is thin ice.
– Heikki Huotari
Author’s Note: “My Body Is My Canvas” is a manifestation of my current program of zooming in on the fractal boundary between what I see and what I think about what I see. In this case, what I saw was a YouTube video about an exercise fad in Japan, walking backwards, and what I thought I thought while trying it out myself.…
...continue reading
James A. Cox is the Editor-in-Chief of the highly popular and comprehensive Midwest Book Review, which hosts nine monthly book review magazines such as The Reviewer’s Bookwatch and Internet Bookwatch (which are written by volunteer reviewers), while the other magazines are by Midwest Book Review and associates.
How did you become the Editor-in-Chief of The Midwest Book Review physically located in Wisconsin?
In the summer of 1976 I was sitting in a Wednesday night meeting of the Madison Science Fiction Club in a State Street restaurant. The purpose of our weekly get-togethers was to socialize with like minded folk for whom fantasy and science fiction were something more than just another hobby.
Into that night’s gathering came a good friend of mine by the name of Hank Luttrell.…
...continue reading
Eve at forty’s dissatisfied
with the shape of her hips
& having to correct the record—
the scratching out, the adding in.
If given her youth to live again,
she’d’ve covered up & found
a quiet corner of the garden
away from need & distraction,
away from the constant pummeling
rainbows & seedless grapes.
She’d wanted to be a mother,
but not the mother of all,
the butt of jokes, the fractured rib,
when it was merely a moment
of weakness & slight despair.
You, too, encounter moments
of weakness & slight despair,
when its easier simply to let go
& see what tomorrow brings.
There were no pills to halt
the onslaught, no backup plan.
God, she thinks, it was just a flash,
and then quite suddenly
she was denied ice cream forever
& lightning bugs & strolls in the park.…
...continue reading
I require angels—
Antonin Artaud
Two angels, weary, find a coffee shop,
order black coffee with their perfect minds.
A baffled server sets white mugs behind
a limp flower. The rising sunlight stops
above the bloom. A laughing man mops
the sidewalk. The angels send him tired joy
and stare at the black surface of their cups
still seeing marked doors they counted, annoyed,
all night. They don’t like knowing who will die
each day. Their long wings—folded, undeployed—
sag. They know that the coffee’s only a symbol
and they are tired of those, too. One gambles
on a scone, dropping coins as a decoy
sin. They both wish they were able to lie.
– Mark Mitchell…
...continue reading